


Promises kept

by foggysundays



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bottom Sam, Dark, Dark Sam Winchester, Dark Winchesters, Demon Dean Winchester, Description of Sex, Horror, Incest, Law Enforcement, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, POV Outsider, Top Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 15:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggysundays/pseuds/foggysundays
Summary: The Winchester were crazy, totally out of their minds, changing patterns and methods rapidly and without any obvious incentive apart from boredom. They had no patience for victimology, killed anyone regardless of gender, race, age or sexual orientation. Rich or poor, upstanding citizens or social outcasts -  no one was safe.





	Promises kept

The tall man in the chair hadn’t even moved a finger in the last 43 minutes. He was just sitting there, seemingly calm and serene, his steady gaze fixed on the huge mirror in front of him – starring with eerie accuracy at the place where she was currently standing. Not that he _should_ be able to see her, not that she actually believed that he _could_ , but still… the shadows in those hazel eyes had goosebumps appearing all over her skin and her neck prickling in a way that had her turn around and check the room for intruders. There were none. She was alone in here.

Before she could manage to push her sudden anxiety away, the door to her left opened and Special Agent Fuller walked in. Fuller was an impressive man; tall and well built, grey just beginning to creep into his military style haircut and his eyes full of intelligence and competence. He was certainly handsome and under different circumstances she might even have acted on that, but not now. Not when the man in the room next door had all of her fight-or-flight-instincts screaming at her to run. Not when one of the most mysterious and brutal serial killers in American history was only one tiny, fragile glass barrier away. Not when his partner was still out there – most likely looking for him, waiting for an opportunity to break him out.

They had done that before. Multiple times. Didn’t seem to matter if there was one or both of them in custody. Didn’t seem to matter if the number and skill level of law-enforcement officials surpassed the usual standards by far. Those two would always find a way. And they always left a bloodbath behind.

They were patient. Unmoving but attentive, like a predator waiting for the right moment and then striking in a movement that was too quick, too precise for anyone to offer any effective resistance. They were brutal, unrepentant and unpredictable -   both a nightmare and an obsession for every psychologists and cop in the country. The man or woman who could keep the Winchesters behind bars had yet to be born.

“Still nothing?”, Fuller´s deep voice pulled her from her dark thoughts, his eyes never leaving the man in front of them.

“Nothing,” she confirmed and internally cursed the slight tremor in that one word. Clearing her throat, she continued, “He hasn’t even moved, just sits there starring at the wall as if he can actually see me. It´s… off-putting to say the least.”

“Still waiting for his brother then.” A statement, not a question. She nodded anyway, “No news on that front either?” His silence was answer enough.

Their suspect had been apprehended fifty-three hours ago. Some routine traffic check and an obviously stolen car, the officers hadn’t even known who exactly had been caught in their nets until one of the newbies with a serial killer obsession had picked up on the resemblance and called the FBI.

Eight hours later had found both the suspect and multiple high-ranking FBI officials in a high-security facility just outside of Quantico. Experts had been called in, the press and psychologists nearly fighting each other in their quest to get a chance to look at the man.

Fifty-three hours – thirty-eight of which had been spend interrogating their newest guest. The team pulled together for this task consisted of the FBI´s best of the best, their elite – each and every one of them a veteran of many successful and a few unsuccessful cases, experts on interrogation and between them, confident to get the suspect to talk. But up until now, they´ve had no such luck.

So far, they had tried pretty much every technique in their book: intimidation had earned them nothing but a raised eyebrow, subtle and unsubtle allusions to his violent childhood and father nothing but dark laughter and a detailed description of how it had felt to kill that man. They hadn’t let him sleep, kept him tied and bound in that same chair, only allowing for a heavily guarded toilet break every now and then. They had given him hardly any food and only the minimum of water they could get away with. Nothing.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t talk, because Jesus, talk he did. A seemingly endless and gruesome account of his murders, detailing every small nuance of the act in that smooth, soothing voice of his. Telling them how his victims had screamed, how they had begged for mercy, how he might have granted it only for his brother to withdraw the privilege again. Describing what it felt like to cut into living, breathing flesh, to cut through muscles and bones, the smell of blood heavy in the air surrounding his kills. She shuddered.

Amanda Lewis was a scientist, one of the best behavioral analysts the FBI had to offer, and she had always prided herself in keeping a clear, logical mind, had never believed in anything but facts, plain and simple. Looking at that man in front of her now and hearing the fond amusement with which he recalled the slaughter of innocent people had her struggling to stay true to those principles. She might not believe in any God, but Satan was most certainly sitting right in front of her.

Fuller had been followed by three more of their team members, one of them pressing a cup of coffee into her hand. Silence reigned the room once more, each of them going through their extensive notes and trying to find a new, better angle to work with. They all had studied “the Hunters”, as the press liked to call them, for many years now. They knew who they were dealing with, had analyzed each interview, each murder site, each bloody message left behind with their victims. None of them would ever even think of claiming any expertise on the murder duo, though. The Winchester were crazy, totally out of their minds, changing patterns and methods rapidly and without any obvious incentive apart from boredom. They had no patience for victimology, killed anyone regardless of gender, race, age or sexual orientation. Rich or poor, upstanding citizens or social outcasts -  no one was safe. Sometimes they would go for months without any confirmed kill, sometimes they´d slaughter whole restaurants in one night. It was a nightmare.

The only somewhat positive aspect was that the FBI certainly didn’t lack the evidence to get them on death row - DNA, fingerprints, videos; there was more than enough. No, their current problems were based on the fact that they´d only managed to catch one Winchester brother so far. Meaning that the other one was still out there. Waiting.

What made her even more uneasy, was that each of her instinct told her that they hadn’t really managed to arrest the man so much as that he had _allowed_ himself to be caught. She had no idea why, couldn’t even explain the feeling, but it weighted on her mind and wouldn’t leave her alone.

Her team had done everything they could think of to coax the suspect into giving up the location of his brother and their associates. Had tried every single trick in the book, had offered him bargains and deals, threats and flattery – all they got was a smile. Sam Winchester saw through all their schemes, didn’t seem to fear pain or crave privileges. There was nothing in all of creation that would make him betray his brother.

“Why don’t we just use his emotional connection to the brother?”

Every eye turned to her, interest and questions in all of their faces.

“I mean look at him, whatever we throw at him, he´s always in control, always holding back. Never shows more than superficial emotions. What we need is for Winchester to lose it, to get so caught up in his reaction to us that he forgets to keep a check on what he is saying. And the only thing that holds enough power over him is his brother.”

Fuller looked at her thoughtfully, “You want to make him angry. Make him lose his temper.”

Amanda nodded, “Exactly. We´ve established a long time ago that Sam here is by no means a victim of his brother´s insanity. He instigates more than half of their crimes, shows an even higher volatility than Dean. But do you remember that video from 2006? How he reacted when that cop accused Dean of raping his brother, of using him for his schemes? Sam completely lost it. I have never seen anyone that angry. So, let´s use that against him. Let´s make him furious, maybe he´ll give up some useful information just by accident.”

None of them really liked that idea, it was dangerous. Like poking a starving tiger with a stick. But there was not much else short of torture or high-level psychological strategies, that they hadn’t used already. And both of those options needed time, time they didn’t have because if one thing was certain, then that Dean Winchester was already on his way to free his brother.

 

* * *

 

 

Entering the interrogation room felt like deliberately jumping into a pool with a Great White Shark. Her heart didn’t seem to get the memo that Sam Winchester was currently pretty much shackled to his chair and the floor and that there was no way for him to overpower the two heavily armed officers in the room. All those security measures didn’t seem relevant when she was met with eyes that reflected dozens of ways she could die today.

“Agents. Welcome back! Just when I started to feel lonely all by myself.”

“Good to know we´ve been missed, Sam. Did you have enough time to think about the little arrangement I proposed earlier?” Fuller seemed calm, but Amanda knew him well enough by now to notice the slight stiffness in his shoulders that betrayed his nerves – anger or anxiety, maybe both.

Sam´s dark chuckle seemed to echo in the small room, “I thought I had made myself clear, _Agent_. There is nothing you can offer me or do to me that will convince me to sell out Dean. Nothing. At. All. Try me if you like.”

Fuller nodded grimly, launching into another monologue to steer their conversation into the right direction. It took them another fifteen minutes of useless arguments and back and forth banter, before Amanda finally got the opening she needed.

“Why even bother worrying about my brother? He´s going to come for me anyway. Soon, I think. It has already been what? Fifty-six hours? Shouldn’t be long now, just lean back, Agents, and wait, I think I might even introduce you. _If_ you survive his entrance, that is.”

“You´re quite confident in your brother´s abilities, Sam. I wouldn’t be quite as cocky, though. This place has high level security after all – no one can enter or leave without us noticing”

“A minor inconvenience. You shouldn’t worry about that, Amy dear. Dean and me, we´ve made a bet. And my brother can never resist a bet, he´ll be with us soon.”

“You´re brother has always been drawn to challenges, hasn’t he? And he´s loyal to you, Sam, I´ll give him that. Though some might call it obsessive, destructive even.”

“ _Destructive_. What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“We´re not blind, Sam, and your brother is not very subtle. We´ve heard his innuendos, his hints at something more than simple brotherly love between the two of you. Is he touching you, Sam? Touching you in places where he shouldn’t? Forcing you to do things family should never do to each other?”

Winchester´s gaze had turned sharper, burning into her skull when he answered, “Riding the incest train again, Agents? Come on, I expected more from a bunch of highly educated Harvard people. The old sexual abuse act is starting to get boring. Any other theories?”

Fuller jumped in, hands on the interrogation table, leaning slightly forward, “You´re brother is not all that different from your old man, is he? The same blood, the same sick preferences. Tell me, Sammy, did they ever take turns on you? Fuck you, one after the other?”

This had Winchester sitting upright, anger pouring from his eyes. “Don’t. Call. Me. Sammy!” he hissed, “What Dean is to me can _never_ compare to what my father was. You have _no_ idea what you are talking about, _no_ idea what our relationship is like. Don’t you ever dare to put them on the same page, Dean is nothing like my father! Nothing!”

Jackpot!

“So he _is_ fucking you, huh? You getting off on that, too? Or is it just another point on your list of brotherly duties? You´re just bending over for him whenever he wants you to? You´re nothing but big brother´s little fuck toy, ey? Just some convenient hole to stick his dick into, to use whenever he wants to. He doesn’t need you, Sam. I guess he can get a quick fuck pretty much whenever he wants to. Why would he take the risk to break into the fucking FBI when there´s so many people who could easily replace you?”

Winchester was leaning back into his chair as far as he could in his current position. This wasn’t a relaxed pose anymore, his whole body had stiffened, muscles tensing, jaw clenching. But it was his eyes again, that had Amanda sucking in a sharp breath. That was not simply anger in there, but a bone crushing fury that threatened to consume every ounce of rationality once it was released. Fuck, maybe her plan had worked too well.

“You wanna hear about incest, Agents? You wanna hear about what my brother likes to do to me? About how much I love it when he bends me over and fucks me open with his dick? He is good at that, you know. Makes me scream his name every single time.” His lips pulled back into a feral grin as he continued, “He loves to open me up, too. That man can spend hours with his tongue in my ass, slowly licking me open till I´m a quivering mess, begging him to fuck me. Other days we don’t even bother with that, he´ll just shove it up there, getting me off on that delicious pain, make me unable to sit for days. And you should see his cock, Amy. It´s fucking huge, all thick and long, slightly curving to the left. As beautiful as the rest of him. And it always feels so good in my mouth, in my ass – splitting me open, going so deep and fucking me so hard that I can nearly taste him in my throat.”

Sam´s voice was hypnotizing, like a siren luring in her prey. Horrified, Amanda noticed that her breathing had picked up speed, that arousal cursed through her body despite herself, making her wet and dripping into her panties. Suddenly she felt sick.

“Sometimes, Dean likes to tie me up. He likes to keep me like this for hours, working me over till I´m begging for it. Personally, I love the days he allows me to cut him. We have this special little silver knife for those days. A beautiful little thing, but sharp enough to cut your throat if I´d want to. He loves the pain, loves it when I use him as my canvas, when my knife follows the constellations his freckles have drawn on his skin. He´s my Master Piece, the only living, breathing work of art I´ll ever create.” His voice was full of wonder and awe, but turned to pure contempt when he started to talk about his victims, “All those others, they can never hold still, never know how to keep from moving when I´m working on them. Their skin is not right, their blood the wrong color – it makes me _fucking_ furious.”

“All of his kills are _mine_ , you know? He picks them so carefully, ties them up so beautifully – just for _me_. And it´s so, so _hot_ to watch him work, to see the fear and pain in their eyes, to observe his calm and control when he cuts into them – he always knows the right pathways, knows how to make ordinary people beautiful and ethereal. But none of them compare to him, no one ever could! “

“Sometimes, he´ll tie someone up for _me_ , pick them only for _my_ pleasure while he sits back and watches me do the carving.”

“He likes to fuck me right there. Right after we´re done with them, blood still drying on our skin, knife in hand. You have no idea what he tastes like on days like these, despair and iron on his skin – not as delicious as his own blood, but still so, _so_ good.”

None of them dared to move, all of them just starring in horror at the man in front of them. His eyes were wide and glittering, breathing weirdly fast and shallow and – oh God! That right there was an erection tenting his jeans, huge and obscene and sickening.

Her noise of distress must have woken the others from their daze, because before she could get a grip on her wits, Fuller was moving forward, snarling as he decked Winchester right in his face, “You sick fuck!”

Sam just threw him a grin, blood on his teeth making him look even more feral, more lethal than before, “Dean will kill you for that! Break you and hurt you in ways you wouldn’t´ve thought possible till you´re begging for your death!”

“Oh and he will come, it doesn’t matter if there´s five guards outside that door or fifty. Doesn’t matter how prepared and safe you think you are, he will break into your fucking building and cut your people down one after the other. If you´re lucky, we might let you watch us fuck before we kill you. I´d tell you to run, but even that won´t save you now. He will find each and every one of you, no matter where you are!”

 

* * *

 

 

They _did_ run.

Amanda was not proud of that, was well aware of what it meant for them to cave in, but nothing on earth could´ve made her stay in that room any longer.

All of them were physically and psychologically exhausted, a feeling of dread and doom so deep in their chests that they couldn’t seem to shake it off.

“Jesus Christ, what was that?” One of their armed officers seemed to have regained his voice a tad faster than the rest of them.

“I don’t fucking care. That man is _insane_. Totally, absolutely and irrevocably insane. Batshit crazy!” Fuller was fuming. “I want threat levels raised to protocol seven, armed SWAT-officers at this door 24/7. And someone better find Dean fucking Winchester as fast as possible. Shoot him if necessary, shoot him, even if it´s not necessary. I want that motherfucker caught, one way or another!”

 

 

The wait was excruciating.

An eerie silence seemed to have taken over the whole building, low voices retelling what had happened in the room with the younger Winchester. Amanda knew that none of them _really_ believed that Sam had spoken the truth. As genuine as that believe had seemed, Dean would never be able to enter the building undetected, would never be able to overwhelm an office of the FBI´s finest singlehandedly. That was just not possible.

Her subconsciousness didn’t seem to listen to rational thought, though. Her body was still buzzing with adrenaline, she felt twitchy and unwell and the silent dread in her stomach didn’t go away, no matter how much calming tea she drank.

 

* * *

 

 

She must have drifted off after all.

Not really surprising considering the fact that she hadn’t had much sleep in the last sixty hours, too much going on with the whole Winchester disaster.

She tried to fix her appearance somewhat in the mirror of their office sleeping quarters, but figured that none of the others looked any better anyway. And she needed coffee. Right now.

It took her a few minutes in the empty corridor to notice the silence. It was not the same one as before, not a comfortable silence, not one of those filled with the faint sounds of small talk and laughter, of coffee machines and printers. This one was threatening, dark. The kind of silence horror movies usually covered with low, urgent music. The kind that filled people with a strange sense of horror and foreboding.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Amanda began to run.

She was alone. Abandoned. No one there but her. No people in the offices, none in the bathrooms, in the sleeping quarters, in the kitchens.

There was also no sign of a struggle, no sign of violence or of a threat. Just that pressing feeling of danger, the almost-there-taste of iron on her tongue.

She had to struggle to keep it together, to remember that she was a trained professional, to keep on walking and not run away as fast and far as she could.

None of her colleagues answered their phones, not Fuller, not Evans, not Kinsley.

The next floor. Still no visible human life, so sound, no relief. Panic was thick in her throat, her legs trembling and making it hard not to stumble, but she somehow managed to keep going.

Suddenly she _needed_ to find another human being, needed to _touch_ and _feel_ , needed the assurance that she was not alone in this nightmare. But there was nothing but empty corridors.

 _The thought_ was like lightning burning through her every cell. Suddenly, she knew where she had to go, where she hadn’t looked yet. She also knew what she would find there.

 

* * *

 

 

Red, was the first thing that came to her mind when she exited the elevator to the Winchester´s floor.

Red flesh and white bone, brownish blood already starting to clot and the brown-green-blue-grey of dead eyes staring at her in horror and pain.

She knew what was waiting for her in the interrogation room, knew what to expect after the massacre that was the corridor, but it still stole her breath.

Dean Winchester was _beautiful_. Tall and broad and strong, green eyes nearly sparkling in the half light of the room, boring into her very soul. Face beautiful and masculine at the same time, a jawline meant for biting and licking, hair not quite long enough to hold on to. All of him covered in lines and dots of red and copper and brown.

His brother was not any less magnificent, even broader and taller, the muscular cut of his chest only enhanced by the blood drawing gruesome patterns all over it. Sam was looming at his brother´s side, pressing into his back while his lips caressed the skin at his throat. It took Amanda a moment to realize what she was seeing, that it was not only her friends´ blood covering Dean, but also his own – still flowing sluggishly from a cut near his pulse point, Sam doing his best to lick it up, biting and nipping at the skin.

Both of them were shirtless, their jeans hanging low, partially closed but still showing enough skin to keep her wondering what lay beneath.

They were beautiful. Beautiful and terrifying and absolutely lethal.

Dean smiled at her when she entered the room – a smile that would have been enticing if not for the dark promise and cruelty in his eyes. His hands were covered in blood, no clean skin visible up to his elbows. The glint of a huge, vicious looking knife in his right hand caught her attention.

A remote part of her knew she should be terrified, that she should scream and fight and run, but there was nothing but numbness left in her, nothing but a distant curiosity that wondered how much pain she could possibly withstand before she´d pass out.

Fuller´s head rolled off the table and onto the floor, his face nothing but a mask of pain and blood and bone.

Dean turned to her then, bloody fingers caressing the blade in his hands, eyes flashing black for a heartbeat or two.

 “My brother has made some promises.” His grin was bright and heralding unimaginable pain. “And I intend to keep them. Every single one of them.”


End file.
